No Reason to Ask

He who would find
No reason to ask the question

Where do the trees
Acquire their patience to stand so still

And why do the flowers blossom
Radiate with color and fragrance
And then wither away and die

He would find in life
That which transcends
Its beginning and end
That which precedes
The question itself

 

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How privileged is he who composes the music of his life, to be played at his own funeral. It is a pity that we do not know that we are all composers in secret and that we each write our own cadences and requiems.

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